


Reveries

by apathetical



Series: A Telekinetic in Maine — the Derry Interludes [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14223453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathetical/pseuds/apathetical
Summary: Richie supposed he expected something much more quaint, given how delicate she was in appearance, maybe curled up in a wilful doze— but her arms are stretched out in front of her like the way the tabby cat that could be found loitering near the Aladdin sometimes slumbered across the pathways, limbs stretched out relaxedly, often indulging in lethargic, fanged yawns.





	Reveries

When word got around that their Math teacher (who Richie had fondly gifted the epithet of ‘ole botched perm’ to) had called in sick, the bespectacled youth had wasted no time in weaseling his way out of school in at exactly 12:16P.M., and biking across town in record time. 

He neared Stan Uris's house and instantaneously slowed, though this was not his true destination, which happened to be a marginally smaller residence almost five houses away, with ivory-painted fencing sloping dangerously from its emplacement at a particular spot at the back, where his bike was coincidentally parked near. 

Adrenaline buzzed within a youthful physique, inching toward a grand spurt of growth that would not cease until he towered exactly a foot over the girl he was so enlivened to meet. 

Weeks had morphed into almost months of a ritual that had become quite engraved into his daily routine; one that would continue into his teenaged years, until arguably the day he would depart from Derry for(almost)ever, and supposedly leave everything behind; a juvenile love that would echo for lifetimes, the ghost of eight figures and what would occur that summer, bloodstained and piked with death. 

But the beginning of the end was yet to come; in almost three weeks, to be precise, on the very last day of school and summer break anew. Scarcely burdened with educational woes, Richie Tozier leisurely strolled toward the house; smaller than his, indefinitely, but much neater in structure. It didn’t matter in the first place; what mattered was what was inside, or rather, who. 

He had never lost his footing on this route, not once, as his fingers gripped into the windowsill, hoisting himself into the small space, which was just big enough for him to tumble through as he always did, inky strands tousled and glasses askew. 

He grinned to himself, rather proud of himself for having skipped out on another tedious session of Math, which was by far his least favorite subject at school, to be with  _ her _ instead. Not that he had one, but math was simply, put in simple terms, the worst of the worst. 

Glancing around, the loudmouthed boy sought out the object of his affections with his gaze. The room was dim, but he was no stranger to this ambience, but—

Spectacle-imbued optics stalled upon the bed, a brow quirking in surprise.

Jane was sleeping. 

Richie supposed he expected something much more quaint, given how delicate she was in appearance, maybe curled up in a wilful doze— but her arms are stretched out in front of her like the way the tabby cat that could be found loitering near the Aladdin sometimes slumbered across the pathways, limbs stretched out relaxedly, often indulging in lethargic, fanged yawns.

Tendrils of molten gold shimmered under the midday blaze that streamed through flimsy draperies and warmed the room, flickering in white-hot tremors against the soft angulars of Jane’s relaxed features, a flushed cheek pressed against the interior of a slender arm, leaving rippled impressions against ivory skin.

Her lashes — a tender and fawn shade — kissed the rise of the cheek that was most visible to him. One long, supple thigh stretched until the tip of her toes curled into the plush veneer of a pillow, the other curled in at the knee, skirt ruffled against her thighs— much akin to the rumpled manner of the sunlit tendrils — glossy and lustrous — splayed over each individual shoulder, milky and bare sans a pair of thin straps, meant to hold the gentle, summery fabric of a sundress upright. 

Richie also supposed the pout of her lips was endearing, yet rather plump, but the thought of kissing her was swiftly brushed away so that he could admire the sleeping angel—   _ girl _ for a few more seconds (maybe) minutes, her shoulders gently rising and falling with each perceptible breath. 

She was beautiful. 

This was not the first time, nor would it be the last time this glaringly obvious fact would glide its way into his thoughts just as easily as her soft breaths fanned against her skin. Basking in the glow of a noontime glaze of sunlight made her presence seem a bit more ethereal than usual— almost  _ unreal, _ gentle rays feathering across winsome features, soft and pretty and feminine, enough to render even the resident loudmouth speechless. And it was true; the blonde-haired girl was prettier than most, if not all of the girls at Derry Middle School, and possessed a type of effortless elegance that was almost unnatural for a mere girl of thirteen, perhaps even twelve. Sometimes, briefly and fleetingly, he pondered upon a Jane Ives with thick, luscious curls of hazel, though, there was no need to wonder if she would have still been this strikingly stunning and endowed with such an empyrean, almost ethereal glimmer that could render just about anyone asounder. 

Because he knew, he would have fallen in love with her anyways. 

A decidedly heavy notion for a boy at this age, yet Richie had yet to encounter an entity or rationale suggesting otherwise. It was already painfully evident in the manner in which he looked at her, the way thoughts of  _ her _ seemed to constantly orbit the normally indecent refines of a debauched mindframe. Because Jane was more than just beautiful, she accepted him, each and—

It suddenly occurred to him that he had a perfect view of her breasts from this angle. 

Before he could further analyse this new development, the beauty splayed across the linen sheets began to stir, eyelids fluttering gently as moments ticked by, a gentle yawn prompting her chest to rise as the girl daintily feathered a hand across her mouth, shielding the natural response to awakening from as her svelte physique managed to recoil; easing into a seated position at the middle of her bed, knees sinking into the mattress as her arms stretched out above her head, back arching in a feline manner, tufts of platinum framing her face in a rumpled, golden halo. 

Richie had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. 

He had probably made a noise (or rather, squeak) of appreciation, because her head was slowly turning to his direction, pinched brows and expected perplexity smoothing away, a lazy yet gorgeous smile adorning sleep-ridden features. 

“Richie,” Jane greeted sweetly, and for once, the self proclaimed ‘man of a thousand voices’ seemed to have lost his own, throat constricted and strangely dry, the word  _ pretty, pretty, pretty _ running circles in his head, momentarily stunned by the sheer beauty of her smile.  

For a moment, he was afraid that if he spoke, he would sound exactly like Stuttering Bill, or the worst version yet: Stuttering Bill around  _ girls _ .

She didn’t seem to mind his silence, however, still smiling serenely as she rose, more or less gliding toward him on feet bare as day, lacking the constraints of prim ballet flats. 

“Blondie—”

He couldn’t get much out after the supposedly affectionate greeting, which might have perhaps been accompanied by an roguish comment regarding some part of her anatomy (particularly what he had fleetingly glimpsed down the slight plunge of her dress)— but instead, her arms snaked around his neck, and the scent of warm vanilla swiftly invaded his senses; familiar yet so intoxicating, drowning in her sweet fragrance as her nose nudged against his, slanting her lips against his own softly. 

Her kiss was sweet, just like her. Fingers tangling in her sleep tousled locks of gold, he kissed her back in earnest, an arm (albeit clumsily) wrapping around her waist. 

A few more moments ticked by, and the couple remained just as endearingly entangled, basking in the early afternoon haze of light. 

With flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips, Jane pulled back first, her mouth curving into another pretty smile, one reserved just for him—

( that still managed to take his breath away. )

Her fingers slid down to his chest, tracing down to to feel the rampant racing of his heart, merely to clutch into the fabric of a light-coloured shirt left unbuttoned over his shoulders. 

“You’re early . . . ” she trailed off, arching a fair-tinted brow. 

“You don’t seem to be complaining, sugar lips,” he riposted smugly, (slightly calloused) palms working on maintaining a grip on her slim waist, tugging the blonde closer.

“Surprised,” Jane corrected, doe-eyed and beautiful as ever, even being this blunt. It was strangely charming, and made her seem in conceivably human, despite everything else being so utterly contradicting. 

“Richie?” 

Her button nose borrowed into the cotton fabric just over his collarbone. 

“Yeah, goldilocks?” 

His palm traversed upward once more, fingers combing through glowing tendrils. 

“Can we . . . stay here?” 

“Sure.” 

And for a while, if simply this fleetingly, he held her close.


End file.
